


Soft In All Ways

by d_tuo



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Best Friends Squad, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, adora is a huge dork, catra gets therapy, ptsd warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_tuo/pseuds/d_tuo
Summary: Of all the things to have happened to her, the last thing Catra expected was to get a fan club.She thought stalker was more accurate, but it hurt Bow’s feelings so she stopped saying it. He’s the de-facto president, Adora told her when she first got wind of this fan club, because he started it. Catra should’ve known that his weird cooing over her sneezes and ears would spiral into something out of hand. And become more annoying, if possible. She’s got a long list of regrets and not nipping Bow’s obsession in the bud is at the top of it.Or: Catra is the unwilling star of her own fan club. It's beyond annoying, but it grows on her. Eventually.
Relationships: Adora & Bow & Catra & Glimmer (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 350





	Soft In All Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoy reading this! I've got to warn you though, there's lots of cursing and PTSD trigger (kind of, it's not very strong). Also, "self-doubt" trigger warning? Not sure how to phrase that, but just want to warn you in case you're avoiding it.

Of all the things to have happened to her, the last thing Catra expected was to get a fan club.

She thought _stalker_ was more accurate, but it hurt Bow’s feelings so she stopped saying it. He’s the de-facto president, Adora told her when she first got wind of this _fan club_ , because he started it. Catra should’ve known that his weird cooing over her sneezes and ears would spiral into something out of hand. And become more annoying, if possible. She’s got a long list of regrets—literally. It’s two feet long and written in pink ink (it was the only pen Perfuma had at the time; Scorpia snapped the rest by accident), and not nipping Bow’s obsession in the bud is at the top of it.

As expected, the gregarious and excitable archer just _had_ to share his findings. He roped Sparkles in. Then Sparkles’ old man. Then everyone else. Sometimes, after Bow and Glimmer teleport from her gasp, fawning over a picture that she definitely did not consent to be in, Catra regrets confessing her love to Adora—the confession that quite literally pulled Adora from the edge of death, saved Etheria and all its inhabitants, and whatever.

She should’ve let the stupid planet blow up.

-

Living in Brightmoon must’ve made her soft because she doesn’t catch Bow sneaking around until the click of the camera shutter and flash startle her.

“Aww, _so_ _cute_.”

The old Catra would’ve lashed out with claws and teeth, sliced the violator’s face into ribbons, as soon as they pointed the lens in her direction. But this Catra merely scowls, curses, and blinks, waiting for the bright spots in her vision to subside. When they do, she sees the tail-end of a light blue cape disappear around the corner. She hears Bow and Glimmer’s laughter echoing down the hall.

She rises from the velvet bench, prepared to give chase, when Adora decides it’s the perfect time to plant a kiss on the corner of her mouth. Then her chin. Then her neck.

It’s…distracting, to say the least. Welcomed, of course. But it foils her plans of revenge. She melts, like the little dishes of butter served at dinner, further into Adora’s arm. Once or twice, when Adora pauses in placating her with soft kisses, Catra remembers that somewhere in this castle a pair of glittery criminals are gushing over a photo of her. The vengeful fire in her chest reignites and she attempts to sit up, but, as usual, the odds are stacked against her.

The sunlight streaming through the window pleasantly warms her skin. She’s drowsy after having eaten a whole platter of round, flaky sweets—cream puffs, Adora said, who then promptly stuffed eight of them into her mouth. And Adora smells _wonderful_ like she always does after a shower. Even with her keen nose, the scent is hard to place, but if Catra has to guess, she’d say Adora smells like clean water and soft pillows and freshly cut strawberries.

She resigns herself to the terrible fate of lying face down on Adora’s chest in a nest of cushions. Still, she won’t go down without a fight, so she says, slightly muffled against the fabric of Adora’s shirt, “Why are Bow and Sparkles taking pictures of me?”

“Hm?” Adora says absently. She’s looking out the window, at the garden below them. “Oh, no reason.”

“There has to be a reason.”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Catra scoffs lightly. She pushes herself up just enough to look at Adora in the eye. She’s pleased when Adora’s cheeks turn a pretty pink. She feels her own face heat up a bit, but it doesn’t tamper her smirk. They’re still new to this. After all, the Heart of Etheria was only a few weeks ago. Three years of fighting on opposite sides of the war made them forget what it felt like to find comfort and peace in one another. Every gentle touch, playful shove, and mirthful smile between them has felt exhilaratingly familiar, like all the times she’s swung from the Fright Zone cable lines as a child, hundreds of feet above the ground. It’s been an absolute dream, better than anything Catra could ever imagine. 

“So,” she presses, leaning closer into Adora’s face. Her smirk widens when Adora’s eyes dart to her lips. “You’re telling me that your friends took a picture of me for no reason at all.”

Adora nods slowly. “Uh, yeah, reason—I mean, _no_ reason, what-so-ever.” She draws the last word out, enunciating every syllable. She pauses. Frowns. “Also, they’re _your_ friends, too.”

The words throw her off. Adora’s right. Bow and Glimmer are her friends. Good friends. _Best_ friends, even. She’s still getting used to that, too. Perfuma said it’s important to say those words clearly in her head, or out loud for herself to hear, as reminders. It’s helpful advice, even if Catra feels stupid doing it. It takes a hot second for her ambition to return. “Why are _our_ friends taking pictures of me?”

Adora’s face scrunches up. “Well…”

Catra scowls. It’s not deep, nor does it hold any real malice, but it’s just enough to come off as stern. _“Adora.”_

“Okay, okay. Bow, well, kind of—sort of— _has a catalog of your cute pictures_.”

Adora says the last part so fast that Catra spends a whole minute staring at her, brain tripping and fumbling in its attempt to process the words. Fuck, she shouldn’t have eaten so many cream puffs. The sugar messes with her thinking.

It finally clicks. “ _Pictures?_ Of _me?_ ” She’s already halfway off the bench, comfy cushions and sunlight be damned. _“Cute?”_

Adora tries to grab her wrist, but misses. “Wait! They’re in a meeting right now.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “It’s probably not the best time to yell at them.”

Catra stops, eyeing her suspiciously. “What kind of meeting?”

Adora scratches the back of her neck sheepishly. She smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “The…Cutesy Catra Club.”

Her hands flex by instinct and her claws are out. Sparkles better hope her magic doesn’t run out because Catra’s going to chase them to the end of Etheria. She marches towards the door. “I am going to _murder_ them.”

-

Scrapbooking should be listed as a war crime.

Catra scowls from her seat at the long table, claws drumming a furious rhythm on the opal surface. Beside her, Adora is gluing a handful of holographic stars on the book cover, eyebrows furrowed and the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration. Bow and Glimmer across from them are debating how they should arrange their pictures.

Catra lead a war. She fought in battle, held prisoners, conquered kingdoms. She clawed her way up to power armed with nothing but sheer ruthlessness and ferocity. But even she couldn’t inflict _scrapbooking_ on her worst enemies (which, now that she thinks about it, are the same people in this room, so she guesses that method of torture wouldn’t work).

There’s just… _way_ too many small pieces of fabric and stickers. It’s total idiocy to try to stick glitter onto something, and contrary to what Sparkles believes, adding glitter does _not_ make things look better. And pasting buttons down? Absolutely inhumane.

She only stayed this long because of the food. Also, Adora is here. But mostly, the food. Sparkles must have known she’d tried to ditch at the first sign of pastel colors because she requested platters of sweets from the kitchen—slices of cake, cream puffs, cookies, even something Catra had never seen before called _donuts_. She did well exploiting Catra’s insatiable sweet tooth. Time after time, the Queen of Brightmoon has proven herself to be quite cunning and strategic. Catra is impressed, even if she won’t admit it.

“What’s the point of this again?” she drawls, flicking away a sticker of a mouse stuck to her arm. It lands somewhere in the cupcakes. Adora looks at her and shrugs as if saying _beats me_. Catra sighs. Of course, Adora would be won over by stickers and ribbons. She doesn’t need to know what’s going on as long as she gets to play with stencils.

“Memories,” Glimmer says, frowning down at her book. She stands back, taps her chin, then adjusts something on the page. “We are preserving memories.”

Catra’s face screws up. “Having a hard time remembering things, Sparkles? Hit your head on the way down from the throne?”

Glimmer puts her hands on her hips and Catra barely suppresses her eye roll. Great. Here comes the lecture. “Scrapbooking is about recording your history,” Glimmer huffs. “Your childhood, important accomplishments, milestones. It’s something you can look back at when you’re old to remind you of the good times in your life.” Her tone turns teasing. “You know, if lilac isn’t your color, we can get you something different. Maybe black? Or grey?”

Catra glances down at the untouched book in front of her. _Lilac_ is a weird mix of pink and purple, a color she’d never seen before coming to Brightmoon. It’s pleasant, she guesses, but definitely not her style.

Bow proudly holds up his book. “ _Ta-dah!”_ On a two-page spread, he plastered pictures of his dads and siblings. Catra leans forward to get a better look. There’s a photo of Bow and his family wearing colorful sweaters and posing in front of a fireplace. One of Bow and his siblings huddled around a board game. Another of Bow, maybe six years old, wearing a pointy hat and blowing out candles on a cake. Crayon scribbles and doodles decorate the edges of the page.

Glimmer shows hers next. It’s more organized, the pictures glued carefully in the center of each page and embellished with lace bordering. In loopy, inky handwriting, she wrote out the dates and locations of when the pictures were taken. There’s a photo of her mom and dad, presumably on their wedding day. A baby picture of Glimmer wearing a crescent moon barrette. Catra feels a pang of guilt at the sight of Glimmer and her mom, standing side-by-side at the castle gates. She stores the feeling away and offers a small smile to Glimmer. “That looks nice, Sparkles.”

Adora stands up. “My turn!” She steps back from the table, so everyone can get a good view.

Catra looks fondly as her girlfriend flips through each page, narrating and pointing as she goes. They’re all pictures of her friends, posing or caught candidly. Most of them are of the Best Friend Squad and Catra remembers when all of those were taken. At the feast after the Heart of Etheria. At Perfuma’s woodland party. At the hot springs in the Kingdom of Snow (if there’s one thing Catra hates more than water, it’s the snow). There are even some of just her and Adora, smiling so big and wide it makes Catra’s cheeks hurt from remembering it.

Adora turns the page and Catra’s eyebrows shoot up. “Where did you get _that_? _”_ she blurts out, leaning in closely.

“Shadow Weaver gave it to me a long time ago,” Adora softly says, eyes becoming distant for a moment, and Catra knows she’s reliving something important. The photo is small, the size of her palm, and printed in grayscale. A young Adora, hair tied back and face chubby with baby fat, stands in front of a plain, white wall. _Her eyes look sad_ , Catra thinks. But she has the barest of smiles, a subtle upward curve in the corners of her mouth.

She squints at a dark smudge in the edge of the photo and realizes it’s the tip of a tail. The memory rushes back to her, unbidden and all at once. She remembers holding Adora’s hand as their supervising officer barked at them to stay in line. She was the last to take a picture, even though she was at the front of the line, because she scratched and hissed whenever they forced her underneath the blinding, hot lights. She didn’t think much of it at the time, just that it got her another punishment from Shadow Weaver, but Catra now knows that the Horde was compiling a registry of their child soldiers.

“You were so cute, Adora,” Bow gushes. “You even had a tiny hair poof!”

Adora laughs brightly and it pulls Catra away from the memory. She settles back into her seat and reaches for Catra’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Bow turns to her, with stars in his eyes, and says, “I bet you were adorable when you were a kid. Can we see, please? _Please_?”

Catra shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She doesn’t let go of Adora’s hand. “I…don’t have any pictures,” she mumbles, looking away. “Shadow Weaver never gave me one.”

It’s not like she gave a crap about _scrapbooking_ or whatever, but seeing her friends’ abundant memorabilia glaringly reminds Catra that she has none. She has nothing to show for her past, nothing to cherish or reconnect with. Nothing tangible to say _See! It did exist! It did really happen!_ If Glimmer says photos are something to help you remember the good times, then Catra wonders how much of her happiness she has forgotten. It makes her feel…rootless. Unmoored.

Adora squeezes her hand to draw her attention. She doesn’t say anything—just gives her a small, warm smile. Catra thinks there’s a little bit of sadness in there, too. She squeezes back to tell Adora she understands.

“I bet you were still _heckin’ cute_ ,” Bow says. Glimmer laughs and Adora nods eagerly, adding, “She was _super_ fluffy!” Catra blushes and whines—she even turns her chin up and scowls—but it doesn’t stop Adora from launching into tales of baby Catra and all the antics she’d get into, from chasing mice to getting stuck on roofs. Her girlfriend’s hands fly and her cheeks flush with the excitement of remembrance. There are so many stories, more than Catra recalls.

Glimmer chuckles along, while Bow sits forward, attentive. And if Catra’s puckered expression gradually melts into something tender and wide-eyed, they don’t mention it—even if it is adorable.

It’s two days later when Catra hears knocking on her bedroom door. She ignores the first one. Then the second. The person on the other side doesn’t bother for a third, just yells, “Catra! We know you’re in there.”

Grumbling, she uncurls herself from underneath a patch of sunlight and walks to the door. Melog raises their head curiously from the bed. She swings the door open and barely steps aside before Glimmer pushes through, followed by Bow.

“In case you forgot, decent people _wait_ until they’re invited to come inside someone’s room,” Catra says, scowling.

Bow drops a stack of clear plastic boxes on the floor while Glimmer raises an eyebrow and counters, “Decent people also answer the door on the first knock.” The pair settle on the ground at the foot of the bed. They look expectantly at her. Bow even pats the spot beside him.

Rolling her eyes, Catra stalks over and sits cross-legged in front of them. Her lips curl in disgust when she sees what’s inside the containers. Bundles of stickers. Rolls of ribbons. Buttons of every color and size.

“Uh-uh. No way.”

Glimmer beams and holds out a book. After a moment, Catra warily takes it. The cover is crimson red, velvet, and she immediately likes how it feels against her fingertips. She flips through the empty pages. They are clean and sturdy under her touch. Something wells up in Catra. It makes her throat feel thick.

She swallows, whispers, “But I don’t have anything to put in here.”

Bow holds out an envelope. “Yes, you do.”

Catra is careful when she slides the photos out. She slowly shuffles through them, and stares and stares. There are so many. So much that she has to stretch her fingers to keep them from sliding out of her hand. She isn’t looking at the camera in most of them. Her attention is elsewhere, laughing or smiling or just doing whatever at that moment, surrounded by her friends. She knows most of them were taken after the Heart of Etheria because her hair is shorter and her face is brighter, less angry. But there are a few from before, like a picture of her, Adora, Glimmer, Bow, and Entrapta in their spacesuits, helmets off, smiling tiredly from their journey through Krytis. There’s a familiar photo, too, one that she thought she tore up years ago. In it, she’s slouched in her seat, arms crossed, while Scorpia and Entrapta are grinning on either side of her.

“Scorpia had copies,” Bow explains when she lingers over the image.

Catra takes a deep, shaky breath. She holds the stack to her chest and softly asks, “Where did you get these?”

“The Cutesy Catra Club has an extensive collection,” Glimmer says, glancing at Bow who proudly nods his head.

Catra is too touched and grateful to even give them a hard time about that stupid club. She looks down at the photos in her hands once more, then at the boxes of ridiculously colorful things. She hates the feeling of glue on her fingers, but, maybe just this once, it’s worth it.

“Can you show me how to scrapbook?”

“Hey,” Adora says when Catra slips through the door. “Did you find what you wanted?”

“And more.” Catra grins, nudging Adora’s leg away so she can sit on the bed. Melog had stolen her side while she scoured the kitchen for leftover dessert. Traitor. She offers a plate of sweets. “Cake or cream puff?”

Adora takes the slice of chocolate cake and shoves half of it into her mouth. Catra cringes as the crumbs roll off her fingers and onto the sheets, but stays silent. Some battles are just not worth fighting. She plucks a cream puff up and holds it to the lamplight. Her lips stretch into a mischievous smile. “Bet you can’t do this.” She tosses the cream puff high into the air and deftly catches it without leaving her seat. She smugly cocks an eyebrow at Adora as she chews.

“That’s _too_ easy,” Adora says around a mouthful of cake. “Let me show you how a _master_ does it.” She pushes Catra off and throws the blanket aside. She carries a stool to the center of the room and hops on it, balancing on one leg with arms stretched out. “Throw me one!”

Her competitiveness melts into amusement as Adora catches one puff after the other. “You’re like a blonde seal,” she says wryly when Adora veers to the left to snatch a wayward puff. When the last cream puff disappears into Adora’s mouth, Catra leans forward and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. She doesn’t bother hiding the way her eyes travel up Adora’s figure. She smiles suggestively. “What other tricks do you have?”

The words do exactly what Catra wants—they make Adora blush and stammer.

“Uh…I can, uh, catch cake, too?”

She breaks character and falls back into the blankets, howling. Melog’s tail swishes happily as she clutches her stomach, struggling for breath. Adora pads over, puts the plate on the nightstand, and flops on top of her with an _oof!_ She’s still giggling when Adora snuggles into the crook of her neck.

“You’re a brat,” Adora murmurs. Catra hugs her tightly.

“And you’re an idiot,” she purrs.

They lay like that for a while. Catra shifts, just slightly, to get her head on the pillow. Something hard pokes into the back of her neck. She tries to ignore the feeling because Adora’s breaths are slowing, but the jabbing is incessant no matter how she turns her neck. Fed up, she shoves Adora off and flips the pillow over. Adora groans, rolling onto her back. “What was that for?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles. Her brow wrinkles when she sees her scrapbook, the one she made with Bow and Glimmer yesterday. She pulls it onto her lap, running her thumb against the red velvet. “Why is this here?”

“I was looking at it,” Adora says, sitting up. She leans against Catra’s arm. “You did a really good job. It’s beautiful.”

Catra turns the cover to the first page. The Best Friend Squad smile back at her. “Bow and Glimmer wouldn’t leave me alone until I made one.” She traces a picture of her and Adora, sleeping next to a window. “They’re so lame.”

Adora bumps her shoulder, smiling dopily. “Guess the Cutesy Catra Club came in handy, huh?” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows.

Catra rolls her eyes. She’d rather go on a date with Kyle then ever admit that. “Whatever. It’s still annoying.”

Adora laughs. It’s soft, light, and it makes Catra feel warm. She imagines this is how chocolate chip cookies feel when they rise in the oven. Adora’s eyes widen. “I have a present for you!”

She tilts her head. Her tail swishes from side to side. “For me?”

Adora clambers over Catra’s lap to hang off the edge of the mattress. She searches underneath the bed for a moment, then scrambles back up. She holds it up to Catra with both hands. It’s a stack of loose-leaf paper, clipped at the top. “Glimmer said scrapbooks can have drawings,” Adora explains, cheeks pink. Her eyes dance around the room, looking at everything except her. She purses her lips. “You don’t have any pictures from when you were a kid, so I…I drew some of you, and I know it’s not as good as an _actual_ photo, but you seemed so sad the other day and I thought, maybe—”

Catra launches herself forward, pulling Adora in for a sloppy kiss. It’s more awkward than intended, all teeth, because she’s grinning so widely her face might split in half. Confetti could be spewing out of her ears right now. Or rainbows. Is this what happiness looks like? Who knows? Catra sure as hell doesn’t.

But if she had to guess, it would be this: Adora, giggling and pliant beneath her. Dark golden tresses loose and ticklish on Catra’s cheeks. Her own hair longer, chin-length and unruly, a reminder that she escaped, that she is still thinking and growing freely. A reminder that her feelings and thoughts are hers—her memories, good or bad, belong to her. And Adora, no longer trapped by a hero’s sacrifice, carries freedom in idle fingers and lazy mornings. They’re safe in the room they share, nestled in a bed they return to every night. Their words are slow, their touches unhurried because they have tomorrow, and all the days after it.

Catra settles into the space between Adora and Melog, who lays their head on her stomach. “Hey, these are pretty good,” she says softly. And she means it. There are ten of them, child-like and a touch cartoony with endearingly big, clumsy strokes. Some are sketched in pencil, others in ink, but most are done in crayon. Baby Catra is pudgy, sporting Horde clothes and a ridiculous amount of spiky brown hair. She’s standing, or sitting, or giving a double thumbs-up with sparkles floating around her face. In all of them, Catra is smiling.

“Whenever we played pranks on Kyle or got the last grey rations for dinner, you’d smile so big,” Adora whispers, running a hand through her hair and over her ears. “I remember.”

She sniffles. She drags her sleeve across her eyes. She expects Adora to poke her in the side, tease her with _aw, are you crying?_ but she just presses her lips to her temple. “Thank you,” Catra says thickly. 

Adora helps her choose the best ones to glue and decorate in the few empty pages she has. She cuts and pastes a pocket for the last page in her scrapbook and carefully folds the rest of Adora’s drawings into neat rectangles, tucking them in. Long after the lights are turned off and the crafts stored away, Adora’s steady breathing and the quiet rustle of turning pages are all that Catra hears.

-

Disaster strikes without warning, as they tend to do.

Well, maybe, that isn’t true. There was a knock, a fleeting rap of knuckles on wood, followed by Bow’s frantic whispering. “Adoooooora!”

“Don’t answer it,” Catra grumbles, voice muffled by the pillow. “They’ll go away eventually.” She’s cocooned in her favorite blanket (a luxuriously plush gift from King Micah when she officially moved in), and she might just have to slash the face off anyone who dares disturb her sleep. But Adora gets up anyway and opens the door. A pair of hands immediately snatch her into the hallway. Catra’s ear swivels around to catch the snippets of conversation floating through the crack in the door.

“Where did you…?”

“In a cardboard box…”

“So cute…”

“I don’t think…good idea…”

“Catra won’t…resist…”

Melog jerks their head up at the same time she does. They warily look at each other, then at the door. Just when she concludes that locking it is the safest choice, Adora and Glimmer burst through, arms looped together and grinning from ear to ear.

She hisses. “No, get out—”

Bow strides in their wake, carrying a big cardboard box. “We have a surprise for you, Catra!” He gently tilts the box over the bed.

The little monstrosities tumble out one by one.

She shrieks, scrambling against the headboard and treading the pillows. Beside her, a shrunken Melog turns red and spiky, back arching with disapproval. “What the fuck are those? Get them away from me!”

Adora picks up one of the fanged beasts and rubs it against her cheek. “Aw, c’mon, Catra, you’ve seen kittens before.” She holds it out to her. It mewls and kicks its paws in the air. “Aren’t they cute?”

She glares. The feral animal blinks. 

It is a gross assumption that Catra likes cats. It is a gross assumption that Catra _tolerates_ cats. Sure, on her files some administrator listed her as ‘unknown Feline species’ when the Horde took her in and, yes, she has a penchant for sun patches and seafood—also the occasional chaotic desire to knock things off tables. But never, ever has she felt the urge to seek out their company, especially not the mangy strays that sneaked into the Fright Zone. They’d give her fleas, or rabies, or whatever.

Adora’s eyes light up. “Did you guys know that Catra came to the Horde in a cardboard box, too?”

Glimmer snorts while Bow gasps and says, “No way!”

“Shut up, Adora!” Catra flings a pillow and her girlfriend merely steps aside, still cradling that stupid ball of fur. Damn her reflexes. Catra eyes the lamp, wondering if the mess it’ll make on the carpet is worth it when it breaks against Adora’s thick skull, when she gushes:

“She was _so_ small and fluffy and she hissed at everyone who tried to pick her up except _me_.” Adora says the last part smugly, framing her chin with a weird finger-gun. All Catra can do is roll her eyes and mutter _should’ve let the damn planet blow up_ because how did she fall in love with such an idiot?

Brindled kittens climb all over Bow like he’s a tree. Catra winces at the sight of tiny claws digging into his clothes, but Bow looks overjoyed. He clasps his hands together and asks, “Was baby Catra as cute as these guys?”

“ _Even_ cuter.”

Glimmer has a kitten in each hand and holds them up to frame her face. “Catra, even you can’t deny how adorable and precious these kittens are. Just hold one.”

She glowers. She’s still perched on the pillows and keeping a careful eye on the kittens rolling on the comforter. If they get fur on the sheets, she’ll make Adora sleep in the Whispering Woods for a week. “They are literally gnawing on your fingers, Sparkles, how is that nice?”

In the corner of her eye, Adora scoops up another kitten and rubs noses with it. Bow giggles when a kitten kneads his hair. Glimmer raises an eyebrow and puts her hands on her hips like she always does when she’s about to lecture, tease, or generally just give Catra a hard time. She’s still holding the kittens. “You’re afraid of cats, aren’t you?”

Catra and Melog bristle, lips curling back to show sharp teeth. Years ago, when they faced each other on opposite ends of the war, her snarl would make the glittery queen flinch, but now it only fuels her smugness. “I was the Horde’s most successful general. I crushed you guys on the battlefield, like, every other day!”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Glimmer points out. The kittens paw at her waistband. “I think Perfuma would call what you’re doing _deflecting_.”

“You’re afraid of cats?” Adora asks, wrinkling her eyebrows. Her voice is brimming with concern and remorse. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have let them in. I am _so_ sorry.”

Catra pinches the bridge of her nose, breathing in deeply. Perfuma and Scorpia would be so proud to see her applying the grounding techniques they’ve been working on. “I am _not afraid_ of cats. They’re just not my thing, okay? Too much fluff and teeth.”

“But Melog is cat-sized sometimes,” Bow says, holding a finger up. “And they have lots of teeth.”

“Melog’s made out of magical energy. It’s different. It’s _badass_.”

Glimmer shakes her head, amused. “Alright, we get it, you’re scared of cats—”

“Am not!”

“—and you want to go back to sleep, so we’ll leave you alone if you do _one, tiny_ thing for us.” She pointedly looks at Bow, nudging him with a shoulder.

Bow steps forward. “Catra.” His face is abruptly grim as if he’s about to break the news that Adora is leaving her for Huntara. Kittens bat each other from across his shoulders while his voice turns solemn. “We didn’t just come here to annoy you—”

“I mean we kind of did,” Glimmer interrupts, off to the side. Adora starts to laugh, but chokes it back to a hacking cough when Catra glares at her.

“We came here with a _very_ important request. _So_ important, like, majorly—”

“If you don’t spit it out in the next second, I will throw all of you out the window,” Catra hisses.

Bow folds his hands in prayer. “Can you do a photoshoot with these kittens, please? _Please?_ ” he begs, suddenly holding a camera. Where did _that_ come from?

She recoils. “I’d rather host Horde Prime in my body again than do whatever you just said.”

“Kittens are cute! You’re cute! It would make the perfect cover for our first Cutesy Catra Magazine,” Bow pleads and she swears there are tears in his eyes. He sinks to his knees. “I’ll give you anything!”

Catra clenches her fist and grinds her teeth. Her tail poofs out behind her. “I am _not_ cute!”

“C’mon, Catra, don’t deny Etheria the privilege of seeing your cuteness.” Glimmer’s eyes glint with mischief and Catra knows she’s having the best time of her life right now, with or without the kittens.

“So cute!” Adora pipes up. “And badass!”

In one coordinated attack, the trio flop on the bed, singing, “Catra’s so cute! Catra’s so cute!” The kittens swarm them and their song is broken up by giggling.

 _"Aargh!”_ Catra leaps off the bed and stomps to the door, Melog trailing after her. She got more peace with _Hordak_ breathing down her neck than with these three. “You’re all idiots! Screw your stupid club!”

Adora finds her sulking in the library an hour later. Her bare feet are silent on the carpet as she walks to the couch where Catra sits with knees tucked, staring out the tall, stained glass window. Moonlight shines through, painting Catra in silver, and Adora halts behind a bookshelf, drinking in the sight. She’s in her pajamas, hair tousled from her interrupted sleep. Her tail lays relaxed on the armrest instead of coiled tightly around her, and Adora knows she isn’t genuinely hurt from their teasing. Pissed off, maybe, but that’s how Catra shows her love sometimes. After a few minutes overdue, Adora moves to join her. The cushions dip underneath her weight, pulling Catra towards her. “I brought you a cup of tea.” The ceramic plate softly clicks against the coffee table when she gently sets it down.

Catra’s ears twitch. Her eyes briefly meet Adora’s, then return to the window. “I’m not cute,” she huffs.

Adora reaches forward to touch the back of Catra’s neck. She lightly tugs at the growing locks. She leans in, tilting her head and grinning dopily. “You’re the cutest, Catra.”

She sighs. It’s a deep, heavy breath that is equal parts resignation and acceptance. She pouts and it must be very convincing because Adora doesn’t hesitate to kiss her.

“Fine…but I only like it when you say it.”

-

Catra is handling it. Pretty well, she may add. She promises. In fact, she’s handling it so well that she doesn’t need to tell anyone. Especially, not Adora. That’s how great she’s handling it.

It was a bit unexpected, she admits, since the morning began so pleasantly, as they usually do nowadays. She’d woken up with Adora’s arm draped over her, legs tangled together, and dark golden hair tickling her nose. Most of the time, Catra wakes up first out of habit—back in the Horde, she’d drag herself out of bed before dawn to assign Force Captain duties. She only sleeps in now if night terrors plague her. On those days, everyone at the lunch table would see the dark crescents under her eyes and the sour set of her brow, and know to give her space until she’s ready.

But there were no nightmares, at least none that she remembered, none that left her gasping and sweating. No fading images of fire, or claws raking against skin, or green, viscous liquid.

She woke up, feeling warm and safe, greeted by the sight of a drooling Adora bathed in pale yellow light. Catra woke up first because of habit, but watching the sunrays roll over the planes of Adora’s face made her enjoy it. And when she got tired of waiting, she’d trail sweet kisses on her forehead, down her nose, on either side of her cheeks, and finally, her lips. Always in that order. Adora’s eyes would flutter open. She’d smile, stretch, murmur quiet words. It was a routine they fell easily into.

That’s how Catra’s day started. No nightmares, no ominous thunderclouds rolling through the sky, no pit in the center of her stomach. So, understandably, she’s really fucking confused as to how she ended up here.

Adora is excitedly talking with Glimmer about plans to visit Thaymor. Something about supplies, or whatever. Bow is cutting an apple, and he throws in his thoughts every few minutes. Catra’s an active participant in these rebuilding plans, her experience as a general and strategist being invaluable advice to the queen. But today the voices around her are muffled and wavering, like they’re speaking underwater. She’s rigid, frozen in her seat, and all she can do is stare at the cup in front of her

She’s being ridiculous. There’s no reason for her reaction. It’s just a color. It’s just green. She’s seen it a billion times. The grass is green, trees are green. Tons of things are green, including the breakfast smoothie she’s scowling at. According to Bow (whose source is Perfuma), it’s full of healthy things that will make her live longer, like spinach and kale. He made it for the first time today and everyone gamely gulped it down as soon as he put it in front of them, so they wouldn’t hurt his feelings, even though it tastes worse than the Horde’s mud-colored rations.

Everyone, except Catra. Because it’s…green.

“Catra, what do you think? Catra?”

She jumps a little, tearing her eyes away from the pool of green. Everyone is looking expectantly at her and she fumbles, “Uh, sorry, Glimmer, I wasn’t listening. What’d you say?”

Glimmer’s eyebrows knit together. “I was asking about which villages we should prioritize.” She studies her intently, eyes sharp and clear, and Catra is suddenly reminded of a time when they were enemies imprisoned in sterile hallways, navigating the environment and each other’s intentions alike. “Are you feeling okay?” The question seems to pique Adora and Bow’s attention because they both turn to Catra, eyebrows wrinkling. Their concern makes her nervous, fidgety, and she forces her clenched hand to relax and grasp the cup.

“I’m fine,” Catra mutters, frowning at the smoothie. The thick liquid sloshes at her touch and a piece of leaf that didn’t get blended floats to the top of the foam. The sight is oddly…grounding. It’s an anomaly in the most mundane sense—an exception, a survivor, to what was supposed to be total destruction.

Her focus lasts long enough for her to answer. “We should prioritize the villages whose main exports are grain and wood.” She pauses, thinking. “All the villages in Brightmoon and Plumeria will receive aid in the next few days, but rebuilding those locations first will increase our food and lumber reserves for the future.” The confidence in her voice sounds convincing. As she said, she’s handling it.

Adora nods. “That’s a good idea. Glimmer, what do you think…?"

With the attention away from her, Catra sinks into her chair and pushes the smoothie away, her appetite lost. Bow leans forward across the table. “I’ll put more apples in yours next time, to make it sweeter,” he whispers conspiringly. He winks.

Despite the buzzing in her chest, Catra manages a weak smile.

She bites down on her tongue so hard it spills copper. The coil of tension she’s carried since breakfast in the hole above her stomach finally explodes. She imagines it as the stars that Entrapta likes to ramble about—supernovas—expanding and collapsing on itself all at once, catastrophically spewing anger into every crevice of her body until her head swims and her fangs jut out in a snarl.

She hadn’t felt rage like this in ages. It’s intoxicating, and exhilarating, and terrifyingly _familiar_. It’s all Adora’s fault, with her prying and incessant questions. That idiot never knew when to stop, did she? Adora, tactless and clumsy, could never see when she crossed the line in her rush to save the say. She always has to be the hero, always the one to fix things—fix _her_.

But Catra didn’t need her help. She was handling it. She was fine.

Until Adora hauls her aside by the arm during the break and whispers hotly, “What is going on, Catra? Why are you so angry?”

The words ring louder than she intended in the polite air. Catra realizes before her that everyone is staring at them—King Micah, Bow, the princesses. The sting of humiliation, of having everyone gawk at her with wide-eyes, is numbed by the roaring in her ears and the metal in her mouth. Adora doesn’t flinch under her glare—she looks back, eyes unwavering and mouth set in a grim line.

Blistering words pound against her clenched teeth, clamoring to be released. A part of her, sharpened by years of practice, wants to needle and push and pour fuel into the flames until everyone but her is choking on the smoke. She suddenly craves a fight—calloused fists and seething remarks clashing wildly. Most of all, she wants to hurt Adora, make her falter and pale, just like she used to when they were enemies.

The twisted temptation beckons to her. She _almost_ gives in.

Catra reels back, one hand muzzling her mouth and the other held out to stop Adora from following her. _This isn’t fair,_ she thinks, breathing tightly through the slits between her fingers. _Adora doesn’t deserve this._ She turns away, towards the doors.

“Catra!” Adora calls to her retreating back. She starts, but Glimmer steps in front of her, gently shaking her head. “Just give her space, Adora.”

Melog follows closely on her heels, growling at anyone who comes close. But just when she’s about to storm across the threshold, Melog freezes and holds their ear aloft, as if listening. Still red and thorny, they shrink into the size of a house cat. They slink back to Adora’s side and curl around her leg.

Catra doesn’t look back.

No matter how much has changed, the Fright Zone will always harbor her ghosts.

They lurk in the rusty skeleton of her former home, underneath the floral and leafy sinew that’d blossomed under Adora’s sword. Their whispers—once frantic and consuming at the peak of her meltdown—are subdued by the sweet air and smiles offered her way as she travels the streets to Horror Hall. In the days after Horde Prime’s eradication and the official end of the war, Scorpia opened her ancestral kingdom to anyone who needed a home. The barracks that housed child soldiers had turned out useful in offering a decent bed to the refugees and ex-Horde members that flooded into the Fright Zone.

Despite the uncomfortable memories that occasionally resurfaced in a wayward shadow or familiar hallway, Catra’s a regular visitor. Alongside Scorpia and Entrapta, she’s leading the reconstruction of the military base into something hospitable and welcoming—a place, she envisions, that will feel like an actual home to people.

She’s witnessed plenty of surreal things during her visits: families picnicking in the open lawns or children gathering for a soccer game. But the strangest thing is the old people, hobbling around with wooden canes or walkers. Some smile at her and ask if she’s eaten, while others scowl and shoo her away. It’s weird seeing wrinkly faces and bony hands covered in liverworts (she said that aloud once and Glimmer lectured at her for an hour). The oldest person Catra had ever known before the war’s end was Shadow Weaver, or Hordak; Horde soldiers simply never lived to old age.

She ducks into an alley, narrow and quiet, that passes the platform she used to perch from when she wanted to be alone. She entertains the idea of climbing up there, but she knows all she’ll do is sulk and stew in her irritation. The blazing fury she’d felt in the meeting had tempered into a pit of embers—smoldering, but controllable, at least. As her anger deflates, so does her strength. Her feet drag like leaden weights and aching knots form in the muscles between her shoulders and neck.

What a fucking shitstorm.

The grass abruptly gives way to a wide road made of sand and rock. Cacti, adorned with yellow and pink flowers, flank the path like a welcoming party. In the distance, Horror Hall looms above the desert valley. The castle’s red sandstone towers and domed roofs stand warmly against a bright blue, cloudless backdrop. She trudges through the tall, open archway and into the entrance hall, which is empty of construction workers and staff. Plastic sheets cover the floor and ladders lean haphazardly against the walls. She curls her lips in disgust at the stench of wet paint and pinches her nose close.

Deeper into the castle, after a network of hallways, is the throne room. Scorpia and Perfuma don’t notice her lean against the doorframe; their attention is on the dais where the throne sits. She crosses her arms, tail lashing behind her. Their backs are turned to her, but she knows Scorpia is making her thinking face: eyebrows scrunched tightly together, eyes serious, and a claw tapping at her chin.

Scorpia’s voice rings clearly in the throne room. “What do you think about roses—" she throws out her arms in a sweeping motion— “on both sides of the throne?”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Perfuma says. “They’ll bring character to the room. I already have the perfect ones in mind—they’re called Crimson Glories.”

Scorpia nods eagerly, turning to catch Perfuma’s hands. “I don’t know what those are, but they’ll look awesome—oh, hi, Catra!” Her face breaks into a wide grin. “I didn’t know you were coming today! It’s so great to see you, I’ve missed you so much!”

Catra bites back the urge to say that they hung out, like, three days ago (over a tea party with mini food; it was Entrapta’s idea). It’d be a waste of breath, anyway—three days or three months, Scorpia will miss her friends all the same. That’s just how her heart is.

She pushes off the doorframe to meet them halfway. For once, Scorpia doesn’t sweep her into a bone-crushing hug. Instead, the smile falters. “Oh, hey, you don’t look so good. Did something happen?”

She frowns and looks away. “Nothing, I’m—” she stops, chewing her bottom lip. _Don’t be an idiot_ , she thinks, clenching her fists _. Did you really come all this way to say you’re_ fine? She releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She attempts to shrug, but her shoulders are too tense for anything more than an awkward jerk up, then down. “Yeah.” She stares a hole into the ground. “Something did happen.” She doesn’t look up when the pause in conversation stretches into silence. The images flashing across her mind stokes her anger. Green liquid. Adora’s loud words. The whole room staring at her. Her nails cut into her palm.

“Catra?” Perfuma’s fingertips press lightly on the knuckles of her fists. She fights the instinct to yank her hand back and hiss. Her ears flatten against her skull, but her limbs stay still. Frozen.

“Do you want to go to the sunroom, Catra?” Perfuma asks worriedly, bending down slightly to meet her eyes. She wants to say _yes, let’s go_ , but the words lodge in her throat. She nods.

Catra follows the pair to a round room with a giant hole in the roof, a scar from past battles. Crimson and purple jewels inlaid in the floor outline an octagon. Beams of colored light reflected from the gems dance in the warm air. Scorpia leaves to “make a pot of my family’s calming tea” and Catra and Perfuma take their customary seats beside each other on an olive green blanket spread in the center.

She crosses her legs, both feet resting atop her thighs, just like how Perfuma taught her weeks ago when she finally took up the offer on meditation. She rests the back of her hands on her knees and studies the crescent indents in her palms. She remembers how nervous she felt as Perfuma, chatty and bubbly in a way Catra wasn’t used to, lead her to this dazzling room for the first time. She was so anxious that her claws pricked into her skin and drew blood. Adora had freaked out when she came home with bandages wrapped around her hands. Adora thought she’d gotten into a fistfight with Perfuma.

The princess of Plumeria already has her eyes closed when she glances over. Catra flips her hands over. Her claws catch on the fabric of her pants and she wiggles her fingers to sheathe them. She closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath in, holds it, then breathes out, slowly through her nose. Breath in. Hold. Breath out.

“How are you feeling?” Perfuma murmurs.

Breath in. Hold. Breath out.

“Like shit,” she mutters. “A total shithead.”

“Why do you feel like that?”

Breath in. Hold. Breath out.

The answer comes easily to her. “I got angry over a stupid thing. I lost control of myself.”

“Did you hurt anyone?”

Breath in. Hold. Breath out.

She frowns as she parses through her memories. “I—I don’t think so. I…” She swallows the lump in her throat and pushes through. “I wanted to, though. I almost did, but…” she trails off again.

“But?”

“But I stopped myself. I left. Came here.”

“That’s good.” She can hear the smile in Perfuma’s voice. “You wanted to, but you knew it was wrong. It seems like you had total control of your anger. You should be proud.”

 _Proud_. _I should be proud_. She holds the words carefully in her head.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

“What made you angry?”

Her mouth opens to answer _Adora_ , but the name doesn’t feel right on her tongue. She was furious in the meeting room. Adora shouldn’t have pushed her like that. She should’ve waited. But Catra knows she was irritable before that. The tension in her shoulders, the thrumming ball of anxiety in her stomach, she’d felt that since…breakfast. An image clicks into place. “A green smoothie.” She wets her lips. “I saw it and it just…fucked with my head.” The words escape in a whisper, and she feels stupid. Her face flushes. She holds her breath, bracing herself for mocking laughter or teasing remarks, but Perfuma only hums.

“Do you want to talk more about it?”

“I…”

She tries again. “I—I don’t—uh, um—” Thoughts layer over one another, tangle, connect and snap. _“Fuck_. _”_ Catra growls in frustration and her fingers curl into tight fists. Her eyes snap open to red and purple flashes in the air. “This is _so_ _stupid.”_

Perfuma doesn’t break her Zen. Her chest rises and falls steadily. “What is?”

Catra pushes off the ground. _“Me!”_ She’ll explode if she has to sit still for another second, then Perfuma and Scorpia will have to scrape her guts from the walls. Just another mess _she_ made for her friends to clean up. Gritting her teeth, she searches for something—anything—that will keep her from pulling her hair or tearing Perfuma’s blanket to shreds, but the room is bare. She settles for pacing in tight, straight lines in front of the princess. Her hands fly in every direction as she shouts:

“I’m being stupid—it’s a fucking _smoothie!_ I’m freaking out over a drink made of _vegetables!_ And now Adora’s mad at me because I’ve been pissy with her all day—shit, why did she have to fucking push me like that? They’re _always_ pushing me around—telling me I’m cute and adorable! How many times do I have to tell them I’m none of those things—Stars, I hate it! I hate that club! I hate that stupid smoothie Bow made! And—and—” Catra stops. Her heart rattles in her chest as she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I _hate_ what it reminds me of.” Even now, months later, in a beautiful, sunny room with a close friend, the hairs on her arms and neck stand upright. Her clothes suddenly feel tight on her skin and she runs a shaky hand down the front of her shirt. Her eyes frantically track the way the maroon fabric stretches with the movement.

Perfuma doesn’t ask what she means. Maybe, she’s already guessed what Catra’s alluding to—even if Horde Prime and the chip were things they haven’t talked about before during their sessions, all the princesses knew about how she saved Glimmer, and Adora saved her. Or, maybe, she doesn’t need to know more than what Catra wants to tell her. She’s good with things like that—boundaries and stuff. It’s one of the reasons why Catra’s grown comfortable with their time together.

She leans towards Perfuma, hands on her hips. “This is the part where you say some psychic mojo.” She feels a trickle of shame at the bite in her voice.

A beat of silence, then: “Have you heard of triggers?”

“Of course, I’ve handled guns before.”

“Well, _yes_ , but I’m referring to something different.” Perfuma’s eyes open. “A trigger is something—an object, sound, anything—that pulls a person into a traumatic memory. It makes them relive an awful past, a flashback. It can last for a few minutes or even days.” She presses the palm of her hand to her chest. Her lips pull up into a small, comforting smile. “Ever since the war ended, I cry every time a tree crashes to the ground.”

Catra’s shoulders slump as the anger seeps out of her. “You do?”

“You should’ve seen me when I had to help Twigget Village with their wood exports last week. Gosh, I’m so grateful Scorpia came with me.” Perfuma’s smile widens when she says her name. “The sound reminds me of Horde robots trampling through the Whispering Woods. I cry for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I’m terrified of having our peace be destroyed. I know they’re gone forever, but my body forgets sometimes and my brain tricks me into thinking that we’re in danger.”

“Oh.” Catra slowly sinks to the floor in front of Perfuma, tucking her legs underneath her. “But I didn’t cry. I got angry.”

“That’s okay.” Perfuma nods encouragingly. “A lot of times, the parts of ourselves that show first in a difficult situation reflect the adults who raised us.” She purses her lips, then says, gently, “It’s not uncommon for people who grew up in abusive homes to lash out inappropriately or act in harmful ways when they feel threatened.”

Catra’s eyes drop to the floor. “I don’t like that about me,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to like it, but you shouldn’t hate it either. Anger is a shield, it protects us in the moment, but it’s almost never the emotion we truly feel.” Perfuma reaches for her hands, squeezing them. “It’s how you’ve learned to defend yourself against cruelty, which can be good as long as it doesn’t hurt others.” Her eyes light up in excitement. “If you want, we can try yoga as a way to center yourself after you experience a flashback.”

Catra laughs. It’s airy and weightless, and she feels her chest soar with relief. “I’d like that a lot.” She lets go of one of Perfuma’s hand and touches the back of her neck sheepishly. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier—about Adora and the club. It’s annoying, but I don’t actually hate it.”

Perfuma’s eyebrows draw up slightly and her mouth breathes a silent _“oh.”_ Before Catra can question her surprise, the expression flickers away into puzzled amusement. “Can I ask you something? It’s weird, but just humor me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay...”

“What makes something cute?”

She wrinkles her brow. She thinks of all the cute things she’s seen in her life. Adora. Melog is pretty cute sometimes. Puppies are nice. What did they all have in common? Adora and Melog aren’t fluffy; neither are they small like puppies. Some puppies have big foreheads like Adora, but that leaves out Melog. Catra likes holding all three of them. She wouldn’t mind if they slept in her bed (not like those mangy kittens). Does that make them cute? Maybe it’s a character thing, something deeper than their physical traits.

“They’re…warm,” Catra says, experimenting with the word. It sounds right coming out of her mouth. “I mean, they _feel_ warm, but also their heart is warm—gentle and not…harsh.” _Gentle_. Gentle hearts need protection, even Adora who’s the strongest warrior in the universe. She recalls when Adora, oblivious in her desire to do good by everyone, couldn’t see when she was being used, or lead into a trap. _By Shadow Weaver_ , Catra thinks remorsefully. _By me._ “They’re soft in all kinds of ways and they should be cared for. Protected.” She thinks of how people feel when they talk to Adora, pet Melog, or play with puppies. “People smile when they’re around them. They bring happiness.”

“Oh, Catra.” Perfuma’s voice is tender and heavy, and Catra has a hard time placing the weight in it. It sounds like sadness. “Do you really believe you’re none of those things?”

Her eyes cut across Perfuma to the dark corner of the room where the sunlight could never quite reach. Her ears droop and her tail coils tightly around her waist. She isn’t gentle, or warm, or cute, no matter how many times she’s told that. The truth is, deep down, locked in a cage of ribs, her heart is a rotten, savage beast full of spite and sharp teeth. She’s selfish. She’s manipulative. And she’s so good at playing with people’s minds that she’s tricked everyone into thinking otherwise. It’s just a matter of time before Adora, Bow, Glimmer, Scorpia, and all her other friends see through her pretending and realize that there is something irrevocably wrong with her.

“Stop that.”

Catra’s eyes widen. “What?”

Perfuma grabs her by the shoulders and stares at her hard, frowning. Catra looks back and she’s startled to see Perfuma’s eyes alight with anger. “Your brain is _lying_ to you right now and you’re believing it. You’re my dear friend, Catra. I love you. I won’t let you hurt yourself.”

Her eyes water. She opens her mouth to argue because she shouldn’t have her kindness—she shouldn’t have any of their kindness—but Perfuma shakes her head, silencing her. “You’ve made a lot of cruel choices in the past, but you’ve also made many kind ones, and most importantly, you’re _trying_ to be better. You have made _so much_ progress and I’m proud of you.” She squeezes her shoulders and the gesture sends tears streaming down her cheeks. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you,” she says fiercely. “I’m sorry if someone made you think you’re hard to love, but they’re wrong. _Every_ part of you is worth loving.”

Sobbing now, Catra pulls her into a hug. Perfuma rubs soothing circles into her trembling back, saying, “You are lovable and deserve to be loved. You deserve friends who shower you in compliments, and you deserve to _believe_ them.”

Her crying gradually subsides into hiccups. She pulls back, wiping the tear streaks away with a tissue Perfuma gives her. “Thank you,” she sniffles. “That—that meant a lot to me. Thank you.”

Perfuma beams.

She presses the heels of her hands into puffy eyes, gently rubbing away the soreness. She feels drained and sluggish, but in a good way—accomplished, like after she’s finished a workout. She takes a deep breath in, stretching her chest, and slowly releases it. She hears Perfuma do the same. Her ears perk up at the sound of cheerful whistling.

“Hey! Hi! Thanks for waiting for me!” Scorpia walks through the archway, balancing a tea tray on her claws. “I got distracted by Lonnie and the bunch, then I heard you guys talking about some _really_ heavy stuff when I came back and I didn’t want to interrupt—” She sets the tray down on the blanket and settles between them. “Then the tea got cold, so I made a new pot, and that’s when the kitchen guys and I started talking about color swatches, and the tea got cold _again…”_

Catra accepts a cup from Perfuma, mumbling her thanks. She lightly blows on the steaming surface, watching the tea leaves ripple. Her nose begins to clear with the herbal fragrance. With both hands, she brings the cup to her lips. She savors the warmth that sinks down her chest and pools in her stomach, happily purring as she drinks.

“Do you like it?” Scorpia asks, looking at her with hopeful eyes. Catra cracks a crooked grin and elbows her playfully. “Of course I do,” she says and takes another sip to drive in the point. “It’s the best tea in Etheria.”

Scorpia blushes lightly and humbly waves a claw, saying, “Aw, well, it’s just some boiled leaves.”

“Then it’s the best boiled leaves juice in Etheria,” Catra says casually, ignoring the huge smile Perfuma sends her. She snorts, side-eyeing Scorpia. “Don’t let that get to your head, alright?”

Scorpia swoops her into a jostling hug and she nearly spills her cup. Scorpia’s voice is as warm as her family’s tea. “You got it, Wildcat.”

Adora doesn’t stir when the door closes with a soft click. The curtains sway with the cool breeze wafting through the windows. In the dark, Catra shuffles quietly to the restroom and prepares for bed, stripping out of her clothes, brushing her teeth, and pulling on her night garments. Melog, curled into Adora’s back, rises to their feet and steals away to the balcony as Catra slips under the blankets, careful not to startle the mattress and wake Adora. She thinks she’s successful until Adora, a mess of blonde hair, turns over and looks at her with sleepy eyes.

“Hey, Adora.”

A weak, relieved smile graces her lips. “Hey, Catra.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, the air stilted with the tension of their earlier interactions, then Catra wiggles over and ghosts a kiss over her nose. “How are you?”

“I should be asking you that,” Adora murmurs, reaching over to thread her fingers through tousled hair. She purrs at the touch, eyes drooping. “I’m sorry about the meeting. I was being a total ass and making you feel worse.” Her voice grows thick with unshed tears. “I am _so_ sorry.”

Catra winds an arm around her back, pulling her close. She throws a leg over her hip and Adora hugs her tightly. “We’re okay,” Catra whispers. “We’re okay.” Her tail wraps around Adora’s ankle. She pauses, fumbling with her thoughts. “I…I’m sorry if…you thought I was mad at you. I didn’t mean for that.” She feels Adora nod against her chest. “I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow, but the smoothie Bow made put me in a bad mood.”

Adora hums in understanding. “It did taste pretty awful, huh?”

Catra laughs quietly. “Yeah, it did.” She kisses the top of Adora’s head. Despite her body’s exhaustion, she’s content to trace shapes into Adora’s back.

“Catra?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for leaving Melog with me.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Are you sleepy?”

“A little. Are you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Do you want to hear about the Fright Zone?”

“Yes, please.”

“Hmm…we finally put up real goal posts in the soccer field—the kids want a rematch, by the way—and Scorpia’s thinking of putting roses in the throne room, something called Glory Wood, or whatever…”

-

Catra turns the camera in her hands. She sighs. She already regrets her decision, but she’s in too deep to back out now. Adora would bitch and moan all day and she definitely does not have the patience for _that_. The door cracks open and a blonde head cautiously pokes through.

“Catra?”

“Get in before someone sees you,” she hisses, crossing her arms. The camera dangles from her neck by a leather strap. Adora shoulders through, maneuvering carefully around the door so not to bump the cardboard box in her arms. She meets her at the far end of their bedroom. “This is a really nice thing you’re doing,” Adora says as she gently sets the box down beside a pile of feathers and cloth. She kneels on the floor, cooing at the kittens trying to claw up the sides. Catra looks away, feeling her face heat up at the pride in Adora’s voice.

This is a really stupid thing she’s doing, Catra wants to correct. But she just rolls her eyes and joins her girlfriend. If someone told her two days ago that she’d be the mastermind behind her own demise, she’d call them brain-damage (then reluctantly agree because she isn’t above recognizing her own self-destructive tendencies). Staring down the four kittens wrestling in the box, Catra wonders what the fuck made her brain concoct _this_ idea. There is, like, a _million_ other things she could’ve done that would achieve the same results and save her from absolute humiliation and torture. But beneath the internal grouching, she knows that’s not true. Years of standing at the helm of the Horde’s war campaigns had made her an expert at deducing her enemies’ weak points. And Bow’s weakness is her.

She hopes—no, she _knows_ —that the dumb shit she’s about to subject herself to will perforate the metaphorical wall he’d built around himself in the last couple of days. She and Adora don’t know the full story, only whatever Glimmer was able to whisper to them before being carried away by a bunch of diplomats vying for her attention. It was something about his dads and brothers, something bad enough that it made Bow, one of her _best_ friends, really, really sad.

The plan slithered into her head, like the forked tip of a snake’s tongue, the moment she saw him, slouched over with deep, dark bags under his eyes, at the breakfast table. That devious snake formed a fanged smile, eyes, and a whole fucking wiggly body as the meal went on and every attempt to engage Bow in conversation ended with distant, empty eyes and a listless “uh-huh.” She held out for a day, then another, swatting away the snake’s whisperings until, on the third day of seeing Bow’s absent nodding, she couldn’t take it anymore.

So now here she is, about to cuddle her worst nightmares.

She snatches up the folded stack of clothes and tosses them on Adora’s lap. “You dress them.” Adora is more than happy to oblige. Her grin is brighter than the rainbows in the Fright Zone and it softens Catra’s sour attitude a bit. She watches, slightly bemused, as Adora slips tiny legs and heads through the holes in the fabric. “Aw, they look like us!” Adora gushes. She cradles a kitten wearing a boxy, red jacket with shoulder pads.

Catra chuckles. “Yeah, they kinda do.” She hadn’t expected Brightmoon’s tailors to try very hard on the kittens’ costumes (not that she’d blame them), but the detailing is impeccable. They are wearing miniature versions of the squad’s own signature clothes with shimmery capes, red hearts, and all. Even the kitten representing Catra has a diamond-shaped window on its chest. (“The cleavage! How _scandalous!”_ Adora shouts, mock fainting. Catra shoves her, snickering.)

“Let’s get this over with,” Catra mutters, judging how the sunlight pours into the room. She chooses to sit by the balcony’s entrance, thinking that the puffy, white clouds in the distance would make a charming scene. She fiddles with the settings on the camera then throws the strap over Adora’s bowed head. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Adora asks innocently, batting her eyelashes. The corners of her lips quiver up. Catra scowls and swipes her tail over Adora’s face. “Quit enjoying this,” she grouses. “If I’m not happy, then you’re not happy.”

Adora nods eagerly. “I am not happy _at all_ ,” she says, smile growing bigger. She scoops up two kittens. “In fact, I’m miserable.” She plops them down onto Catra’s lap. “Just absolutely _glum_.”

Her ears pin back and her hands hover in the air, not sure where to land. The kittens mew and paw at her thighs. “Are you sure they don’t have fleas?”

“Of course not,” Adora reassures. She carries over the other two kittens. “Their room and toys are always kept clean.”

“They have their own _room_?”

“Yeah, Glimmer arranged one for them. They have a servant, too.”

She sighs. “Honestly, what did I expect.”

“You can touch them, you know.” Adora hikes up an eyebrow. “They don’t bite hard.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles. She experimentally wipes a hand across the back of the kitten dressed like Adora, mindful of her own claws. Her nose wrinkles, but she keeps her hand steady at the base of its tail. “Stars, they’re _awful_.”

Adora snorts as she peers through the camera’s viewfinder. “You’re so dramatic. Too bad we don’t have any puppies.” She twists the lens and squats down. “Ready?”

Catra plucks a blue plastic stick from the toy pile and gently swings it. The kittens go wild for the plush mouse dangling on its end, squabbling and swiping. She tries her best to keep the scowl off her face as the camera clicks and Adora shuffles all around her, trying for the best angles. When the kittens lose interest, she swaps the stick for a fuzzy caterpillar that makes crinkly sounds when she flops it around. The kittens ignore her in favor of wandering off.

“Wiggle it instead,” Adora suggests. “And do this.” She holds out her hand. _“Pspspspsps.”_

 _Is she dumb?_ “What the fuck are you saying?”

“You liked it when we were kids.” Adora shrugs. “It’s how I got you to come out when you were hiding sometimes.”

Her tail bristles. “Don’t compare—” She takes a sharp breath, closing her eyes. When she opens them, Adora has a hand clamped on her mouth, shoulders shaking with soundless giggles. She forces words through clenched teeth. “Whatever. Just take the damn pictures, alright?” Despite every fiber of her being screaming _no!_ , Catra stretches her hand out and makes that horrid sound. The stupid animals come prancing her way.

She suffers through this photoshoot, then another when she changes toys. Before she could call it off, Adora makes her hold all four kittens in her arms for a group photo. “Aw, you guys look like a family,” she coos. Catra sticks out her tongue.

Adora leaves to escort the kittens back to their room while she tries to sweep away the fur sticking stubbornly all over her. What the hell do cats eat that gave them this power? Even she didn’t shed this much. She gives up after a few minutes and swings the camera strap over her head. That’s a problem for future Catra. Right now, she has a mission to finish.

“Bow, get your ass up.” She tosses a manila envelope onto the mass of quilts. “Got something for you.” The blankets part slightly to reveal a lightless gap. A pair of dreary eyes stare out. Glimmer smiles encouragingly while Adora throws two thumbs-up.

Like the hermit crabs she’d seen in Mystacor’s beaches, Bow retreats into his cave, pulling the blankets tighter over his head. They all share a worried look. Adora beckons them closer and they huddle together. “I know Bow’s a talk-out-your-feelings type, but maybe we should…” Adora repeatedly punches a fist into the flat of her hand.

Glimmer’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _Beat him up?_ What the fuck, Adora?”

Adora facepalms. “No! I meant maybe he needs _tough love_.”

Catra raises an eyebrow. She looks at the mountain of blankets and pillows. At some point, Bow arranged his stuffed animals in a neat semi-circle around the bed like a squadron of fuzzy guards. This looks like the work of a guy who needs anything _but_ tough love. Catra steps aside as Glimmer and Adora begin to bicker in hushed voices. She cocks a hip and crosses her arms as she frowns at the cushioned outline of her friend. Adora’s right about one thing: Bow’s the resident _feelings_ guy. And good thing Catra’s had a lot of practice lately talking about _feelings_.

She shoves his butt away to make room for herself. She tucks one leg under the other, letting her foot skim against the floor. “Hey, Bow, it’s Catra. I, uh…” _What would Perfuma say?_ Her eyes travel around the bed, words clumsily falling out of her mouth. “I… _recognize_ that you’re in a _bad_ feeling state and I, uh, offer a listening ear?” She cringes at the way her voice squeaks in the end. She shrugs at Adora and Glimmer’s questioning looks. “If you want to talk,” she adds hastily.

When she receives no response, she stretches over his body to grab the envelope. Holding it with both hands and chewing on her lip, she remembers a time when she was feeling awful, millions of miles away in a tin can of a spaceship, and how a simple gesture from a friend made her tons lighter. She awkwardly pats Bow on the head, just like Entrapta did once to her, with the envelope. She hopes it comforts him now as much as it did to her then. “This is for you. Take all the time you need to look at them.” 

She moves to stand up when the pile of blankets shift and Bow rises from the depths. Hair mussed and smile small, her friend says, quietly, “Thank you for the gift, Catra. May I?”

She wordlessly hands it over. The others join them on the bed. Adora tucks her chin over Catra’s shoulder. Glimmer worms her way through the blankets and snuggles into Bow’s side. She suddenly feels nervous as Bow unfastens the clasp and carefully turns the envelope on its side. She glances at Adora whose face is bright with excitement, then at Glimmer who’d seen the pictures when she helped print them. Her hands clasp together in delighted anticipation. Their confidence in her gift soothes her anxiety, and her face breaks into a full smile at the same time Bow’s does.

 _"Wow,”_ Bow breathes. He looks at her with wide-eyes. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “It’s for your stupid club—you know, the magazine.”

“You’re the best,” he says. He looks at the next picture and gasps. He holds it up for everyone to see. It’s the one where she’s posing with all the kittens. “And the _cutest!”_

Glimmer and Adora giggle at the same time Catra rolls her eyes. “I am not—” She sighs, brushing a hand over her hair. She feels her face heat up. “Thank you,” she mumbles. She pretends not to see the proud, affectionate smile on Adora’s face.

“Aw, c’mere, guys!”

Her protests are only half-hearted when Bow and Glimmer yank them forward. She gets a mouthful of Adora’s hair and the side of her face is squished against Bow’s chest. She’s pretty sure it’s Glimmer’s elbow digging into her back. Let it be known that Catra puts up a valiant fight, cursing without any real bite to it, until she’s overwhelmed by her friends’ raucous laughter and gives in to her own unbridled joy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Honestly, this was only supposed to be like 5,000 words max and then I was like eh, fuck it. The scene between Catra and Perfuma came from my own experiences with therapy and I hope it feels genuine and relevant. 
> 
> Also, everything is canon-compliant except Adora and Catra's bedroom because I totally forgot how it looked like when writing this. 
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
